That Thin Line
by Alone Dreaming
Summary: McCoy and Spock might not get along but when it comes to saving the Captain's life, they'll, at least, do their best not to kill each other.
1. Chapter 1

_**That Thin Line**_

**By Alone Dreaming**

**Rating:** PG-13 for owies and fights

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Star Trek. _If I did, this would not be under fanfiction.

**Warnings: **Owies, a bit of language, a bit of scrapping between McCoy and Spock, a bit of angst

**Dedication:** KCS, who prompted this and made me smile after a difficult week. Kudos to you, buddy.

**Author's Note:** Well, while I'm rolling about in fandoms like a dog does in a yard full of mud, I guess I ought to return to one of my favorites for a little while. Please enjoy.

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He's dragging James T. Kirk's half-conscious ass behind a rock while Commander Spock shows off an impressive set of Vulcan fighting skills. Unlike the Commander, he's of very little use in a fight. Passing a shooting exam is one thing; actually being able to pull the trigger, even set on stun, is another. He knows he can do it if he has to but he's never been a fan. After all, he's a doctor, not a fighter. He'll patch up anyone after a battle, in the midst of one if necessary, but he'll try his damnedest not to be the one who caused the hurt. Spock seems to enjoy doing it anyhow or… find it to be relaxing or something. He's not sure how much the Vulcan feels anything though Kirk's told him more than once, over a bottle of whiskey, that Spock's got a whole range of emotions. Whatever; the guy's still a hobgoblin no matter how one looks at it and he likes to pulverize things.

Besides, what's on his mind right now is making sure that Kirk isn't at death's door. He doesn't know what these weapons do; they don't have the stun/kill option of the Starfleet phasers nor the simplicity of bullets or knives. He knows that they can force someone into the great beyond by touching them but he also knows that this is not always the case. Sometimes, a blow is fatal; sometimes it merely knocks someone out; sometimes it doles out massive internal injury. His hands pull at the front of Kirk's shirt, trying to get a good look at where the knife like thing met flesh and is rewarded when the shirt gives. What he sees is not heartening. Admittedly, it's not as bad as a gunshot wound to the same place but the dark bruising around a nasty looking burn is not something to be taken lightly. Especially when the bruising looks as though it's darkening before his eyes and the vivid burn is looking more raw by the minute.

Damn, he wishes he had the tricorder on him so he could figure out all that is wrong with a wave but it's not here. His emergency kit is back in their shuttle which is currently behind "enemy" lines and inaccessible. Of course, he's always favored the old fashion route over technology but in these situations, technology is so very useful. Technology would tell him whether or not Jim's bleeding internally and the extent of the burn and the depth of the bruising. His hands can only tell him so much as he checks Jim's pulse-- too fast-- and breathing-- wheezing gasps. He peels back the Captain's eyelids, staring deep into pinprick pupils and wishing he had a penlight at the very least. God knows this planet's rocky enough that when Kirk fell after the hit that his head probably contacted something. There's no way of checking reactivity or alertness. Desperately, he runs his knuckles over the injured man's sternum, avoiding the spreading injury. No response for him so he rubs harder and gets a fretful, miserable movement. He nearly cheers in relief.

The sounds of firing weapons suddenly cease and his heart climbs into his throat. He pulls Jim upright so that he's leaning against the rock and slowly, ever so slowly, peers around the edge of the rock. The scene in front of him is not what he wants to see. Spock's on his knees, hands behind his head, one of the weapons held at his midriff over his heart and another at his throat. Four men surround him and three more are coming towards McCoy, carrying the gun sword weapons. McCoy reaches down towards his phaser, removing it from the holster and preparing himself to give injury instead of heal. Here is a desperate situation; Kirk needs him to be strong. For once, perhaps the only time ever, Spock even needs him to pull a trigger. He takes in a steadying breath, and turns sharply, trying for surprise. He isn't an amazing shot but if they aren't expecting him, he can pull it off.

The first two shots actually take out two of the party coming towards him but the next two miss. The group's within ten feet of him now, not slowing to look at their fallen comrades. He shoots three more times, four more, five more times and then they are on him. There is no warning, only a sword-gun thing put within a centimeter of his throat. He drops the phaser immediately, scooting back so he's between them and Kirk. He tried but it didn't work. Overwhelming numbers and the lack of spirit; he feels a bit guilty for not doing more but what else can he do? His hands protectively latch on to Kirk's arm and he glares at the men surrounding him.

"Doctor McCoy, please step away from Captain Kirk and place your hands behind your head," says a heavily accented voice. "We would prefer not to injure you but we will if we must. Please understand, we appreciate your intelligence and your talents; this is not a personal conflict."

"Sure as hell feels personal," he snarls, refusing to move. One of the soldiers approaches from his left. "Back off."

"Doctor McCoy, we assure you we will cause the Captain no further harm," the speaker says and he sees a man in a different color uniform. "He is much more beneficial to us alive than dead." The blade touches his skin and he gets the peculiar sensation of numbness that travels down to his shoulders. His arms suddenly aren't under his control anymore and his neck goes flaccid. He doesn't know what these weapons are but they are a pain. He finds that the numbness is traveling down to his waist and he tumbles over to the side. Damn it, useless; he's useless, the phaser's useless and now even his legs are useless. One of the soldiers slings him over his shoulder and another picks up Kirk. McCoy bounces against his soldier's back, trying to keep an eye on Kirk. The Captain's color is starting to cause him anxiety; or more anxiety than what he's currently feeling.

Spock is walking behind him now, hands behind his head. He does not speak but he meets McCoy's eyes one of the times McCoy's head swings up. The brief second translates many things to McCoy and not one of them is worry which irritates the man even further. All that Spock conveys are questions-- do you think you can walk if I free us? What is the Captain's status?-- commands-- please do not panic, please do not do anything irrational-- and cunning-- I have a plan. What McCoy wants to see is concern-- is the Captain okay-- and, at least, the tiniest degree of fear. Yes, it's logical to push friggin' emotions away. McCoy just thinks it makes the Commander impossible to deal with.

He does not catch Spock's eyes again, focusing himself on Kirk. He appears to still be breathing. There's sweat on his forehead-- both a bad and a good thing. It's an indication that he's still with them and yet, it inevitably means a worsening physical condition; the best McCoy can hope for is a reaction to the pain of injuries. It's not pleasant but its better than some of the other things that are zipping through his mind. His legs are starting to regain feeling as the ground changes from rocks to concrete. He's flexing his fingers a few seconds later just as he's dumped onto a pallet by the soldier. Kirk's dumped next to him and the soldiers back out slowly. Spock is still there with his hands behind his head soon blocked out as the man in the different color uniform steps into the doorway.

"We apologize for this, Doctor McCoy," he says. "But we do need leverage and what better than some of the elite crew of the _Enterprise_? You will not be mistreated if it can be avoided. We would request you do not attempt escape or we will have to take aggressive action." He leaves the doorway and the wall closes up on itself, leaving no cracks or evidence that anything was there at all. They are left in a seamless room with the single pallet and a small box on the wall.

But McCoy does not dwell on that. Able to move, he immediately crawls to Jim, shifting the Captain into a more comfortable position on the cot. Jim is trembling, sweaty and McCoy's gentle investigation of the injury reveals that it has gotten worse-- not much, but enough. The glistening blistered burn surrounded by black and blue bruising now takes up nearly half his chest, ending at his clavicle on his right. He's fairly certain now that Kirk is bleeding internally. The burn is more concerning right now because of infection. There's nothing he can do for the bleeding but pray it stops itself; but he can do something for the burn if only he had some water. The room, however, is empty with the exception of them, the pallet and the tiny grey box on the wall. There's no indication as to what it is so he studies it from a distance before physically investigating. The last thing Jim needs is him unconscious on the ground.

The box is just a box. It doesn't look like a camera, a weapon, a speaker, or a transmitter. Tentatively, he reaches out to touch it and when his fingers brush the surface it expands rapidly into a doorway. He jumps back and stares as before him, a tiny room appears with two basins, one large enough to fit a person and one small enough to be a birdbath. There's also something that looks fairly similar to a toilet. In the corner, above the larger of the two pits, the grey box sits but it is bigger than he remembers. He takes a careful step into it, double checking that the wall will not close behind him.

The two basins are empty but when he puts his hands in the tinier of the two, it fills up with a liquid substance. It tingles when it touches his hands and smells strange to him. Clearly, it is not water, and he curses in frustration. He goes to the larger basin, hoping to find water instead, and is disappointed. Frothy viscous liquid comes into the bowl from nowhere, reaching right up to the top. When he allows his finger to touch it, it jiggles like gelatin and is very difficult to actually push into. Not at all useful, he decides, damn it all to hell. He stands, wondering if this is a cruel idea of a joke or if this really is how the bathrooms on this planet are. He wouldn't know--they'd been regulated to the shuttle in all their interactions-- so he cannot get himself properly worked up over it. Striding to the box, he wonders if it'll give him a better room if he touches it again.

But the box is different than he remembers. A gentle tap does nothing and a longer press brings up no reactions. With a hiss, he smacks it and stalks out of the room, feeling more helpless and irritated than before. If they were both physically in decent condition, he supposed this would be an okay place to be incarcerated. Admittedly, it was different than most human places but it wasn't bad. Bed, bathroom; he can only assume that food is coming later. But the fact is, Jim is hurt, badly, and a doctor he is but a doctor without any medical tools. He can recognize symptoms but he can't treat them.

Kirk is where he left him, shaking and grey. He lays the back of his hand against the younger man's head and doesn't like the coolness he felt there. Next, it's a routine checkup-- pupils, breathing, pulse and so on-- and, in the end, he's not pleased. Everything's pointing to shock. Basic first aid, things he learned in survival classes, come to mind but deep down he knows it's not enough. He can't stop the bleeding, he can't clean the burn, he can't even warm Kirk if he needs to because there aren't any blankets around. They are, without a doubt, screwed.

So, he does what he can. He sits next to the cot, takes the injured man's wrist between his fingers to keep a constant monitor on his pulse and he waits for something to happen. There's nothing else for him to do. He stares at the wall, tuned in to the quick thumping beneath his fingers and the rapid, uneven breaths his friend is taking. In as even intervals as possible, he looks at the burn and the bruise to make sure they aren't worse or festering. But beyond all of this, he is stuck in limbo, hoping that whatever negotiations these imbeciles are involved in work out.

"You know, Jimbo," he says, after some time has passed. "My life really was quiet before I got involved with you. Even when I decided to join Starfleet, I did not expect that I'd end up befriending the kid who would not only become a Captain before graduation but also find every friggin' piece of trouble between here and the end of the Universe. I like you fine, kid, don't get me wrong but honestly, I could do without the stress."

What startles him is Kirk's response. "Swear I didn't plan it that way."

His heart swells and then deflates like a popped balloon. He's not liking the glassy, distant tint Kirk's eyes have acquired nor the spasms of pain that wrack his face. Fresh sweat beads on the kid's forehead which is drawn up in tight folds. The pulse beneath his fingers speeds up to a frantic pace and Kirk's breathing goes from rapid to gasps.

"Hurts real bad, Bones," he manages to whimper. "Really bad."

The popped balloon gets ground into the dirt. "I know it does, Jim. You went and got yourself cut up by some laser-sword thingy."

"Hurts," he says again. "A lot."

There's no joking with this Jim, no playful reassurances. This is not the Jim he's used to dealing with. This is hurting, semi-delirious, confused, childish Jim and he cannot remember the last time he's encountered him. He thinks it was over a bottle of Vodka in their beginning days at the Academy when they were still getting to know each other. He was seven shots in at that point, wallowing over his divorce and the fact that his daughter refused to call him back. Jim was drooling on the table, out cold, having started drinking long before Bones had and having kept up with him as far as shots. He remembers the bottle was in Jim's hand and he'd clumsily tried to remove it without waking his friend. He'd failed, obviously, but the Jim who woke up wasn't the Jim he was used to. The first thing he did was get sick in a trash can. The next thing he did was slouch onto the ground and whimper those same words.

"It hurts… a lot…" And that was the night he learned more about Jim Kirk than probably anyone else on the planet. Jim had learned quite a bit about him to but he didn't think the kid remembered.

Now, he's knows there's nothing he can do to make this better. Talking had helped solve some of the worst of Kirk's pain that night-- a hypo and sleep had cured the rest-- but this isn't the same. He can't talk Kirk through this and he doesn't have a hypo for him. Hell, he doesn't even have antiseptic for the cracked and burned skin across his ribs. All McCoy has right now is a useless bathroom, a sink full of stuff that he dares not use and Jello in a bathtub. God sure has a sense of humor.

Because-- he has to face the facts-- he's not that fun of a person to be around most of the time. He's snide, pessimistic, sarcastic and sometimes, downright nasty. Part of him actually believes that the world is innately evil. Another part of him is sure the moment he sees real goodness he'll give up everything he has and join the rainbow farting unicorns as they tramp about doing saintly deeds. There's a part of him that statistically decides how to handle every situation in order to provide him with the least amount of pain; and that side knows whether or not it's worth committing to someone again. A dark, dark side of him encourages him not to do anything the next time someone needs help because most of the idiots don't deserve it.

And, obviously, none of these are any good to help the twitching, child-like person he has with him now. These things don't provide compassion or love; and he's not sure that the other parts of him exist anymore.

Not that he cannot love or enjoy or find kindness; those are still somewhere. Those flare up in him around patients, around fellow workers, around the friends he's made. He does love them, or thinks he does. It's more that the expression of any of these has faded away under industrial strength layers of caustic attitude. Long ago, he expressed them with no problem while taking care of little scraped knees and spending passionate nights in bed. All his daughter had to do was jut her lower lip and he'd crumble before her, full of admiration for her cheeks, eyes, hair and hands. All his wife had to do was twist her hips slightly, let her mouth curl into a sly smile and he could praise every inch of her. And all that had to happen to ruin him was deprivation of those things; one divorce and the darkness in him took over without so much as a twitch from his good side. He thinks it's pathetic and then wonders if that's the good or the bad side talking.

Does it really even matter? It's not as though Kirk needs a kiss on the cheek and a reassurance or to be ravished sexually until his brains leak out his ears. He needs lies and comforts and things that McCoy doesn't think he can provide without a bottle of Jack.

"What am I going to do with you, Jim?" he mutters softly, gruffly.

Pain riddled eyes look everywhere but at him and Kirk says, "Kill me."

"And have Spock tear me to shreds? No, thanks."

"Thought you were my friend."

"I am. But I'm also not dying at the hands of a crazed Vulcan. Besides, who else am I going to practice on when the infirmary is quiet?"

Jim doesn't answer him as he's passed back into another world. Five minutes later, he still hears Jim asking, begging, for him to kill him.


	2. Chapter 2

Thank you very much for the lovely feedback. I do hope you enjoy the next chapter. Any feedback is appreciated.

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It's some hours later, when he's attempting to move whatever strange liquid resides in the smaller basin, that Spock returns to them. He's not watching when the strange doorway reappears so he's still not sure how it works. Instead, he's in the bathroom, his shirt off, trying to soak up the stuff and finding that it will not permeate the cloth. His shirt dries when he pulls it out and he calls the sink every name he can think of. Already, he's tried putting it in his hands and that does not work either. It evaporates quickly, long before he can take the balanced ten paces to Jim on the pallet. Even with his wariness of the substance, it has become imperative that he clean the injury on Jim's chest and since the stuff did not poison him, he's decided it's worth a shot.

But he cannot get it to Jim and he doesn't dare move Jim to it. The man is somewhat stable and he's worried too much movement will end in disaster. Overwhelming pain is enough to push patients over the edge. All he has to think about is Jim's face when he woke up the last time-- he defines the expression as agonized-- and he has no interest in forcing the man over here. Initially, he thought he could drag the mattress with Jim on it. That would save Jim the trip and him the worry. One tug and some inspection had shown that the mattress was connected to the floor; he could not move Jim that way.

When he hears people, he bolts out to the main area to find Spock standing in there, his hands behind his head. The man from before hovers in the doorway, looking detached at best, stony eyes staring stoutly ahead. McCoy can feel the anger growing when he sees this and notes that none of the people here have anything useful with them; hadn't they said that they wanted Jim alive? If they do, he thinks as the weapons point at him and he half-heartedly raises his hands, they'd better give him something to work with. Like water and bandages and drips and surgeons tools and painkillers; hell, how about his whole damn sick bay with a few nurses? Might as well ask for the moon.

"Doctor McCoy, I would appreciate you waking the Captain and directing him to move with you to stand against the wall while we make certain you have not damaged the room in any way," the man at the door says.

He's not in the mood. Unable to vent his frustrations, his annoyance has festered into full out rage just waiting to overflow on someone. Usually, he'd torture some poor ensigns in need of vaccinations or bang around his office until he felt human again. The only thing he's done here is made things worse by struggling with the useless bathroom and worrying himself sick over Kirk's condition. So, as his mouth opens, he hopes he's enough of a jackass to make the man react.

"Well, I'd love to get him up except he's unconscious, border lining shock, and suffering from severe internal hemorrhaging. But you know what, I'm sure a word from you'll just have him bouncing to his feet." It doesn't sound as snippy as he intended and doesn't garner any reactions.

"Doctor McCoy--" the man starts.

"You sure do say my name a lot," he interrupts. "Do you forget it or are you afraid I have? Let me assure you, my memory's superb. Almost photographic; it's one of the reasons I always did well in school and how I noticed that my wife was cheating on me."

"Doctor McCoy--"

"And another thing, do you even know what 'doctor' means? Lemme tell you, just in case; on our planet, it can mean two things: one, a person who's obtained massive amounts of knowledge on a specific subject or two, a person who cares for the health of other individuals. I am the latter of these and I want to do my damn job!"

Spock's watching him like a hawk and the man at the door has not changed in either expression or in stance. The men surrounding Spock are focused on the man, waiting for orders. When he does not speak, they do not move and McCoy straightens his posture in hopes to make himself more impressive.

Then, the man clears his throat, "Doctor McCoy, we would like to apologize for the inconvenience we have caused by incarcerating you. Indeed, it is not our intention to bring you unhappiness. More that we need you as leverage and we have yet to find a foothold. Had we realized Captain Kirk's dire condition we would have provided implements for his care."

"Brilliant, tell me how I was supposed to communicate the situation to you again in the perfectly sealed room with the bathroom that doesn't work?" No answer but he didn't expect one. "How about you do us an act of mercy and bring us some of these excellent "implements"?"

The man blinks once, then twice. McCoy notices that the men watching Spock do the same. Then, without any motion from the man at all, they retreat to the doorway. "We shall return," the man informs his three prisoners and then the door vanishes. Spock drops his hands to his sides and raises an eyebrow at McCoy. McCoy, in turn, lets out an angry huff and drops down next to Jim. He discovers that Jim's condition is about the same as before-- sick and declining. It heightens the rawness in him.

"You will need to cull your temper," Spock murmurs.

"I'm a doctor, not a Vulcan," McCoy snaps in return, standing up. "And I'll do what I damn well please."

Spock paces over to the wall where the door was, running his thin hands along it. McCoy wants to hit him. "Raging at them is an ineffectual use of energy, Doctor," he says. "They do not suffer from emotions as you or I do."

"Oh, yeah, because you're real freaking emotional," and under his breath, "green-blooded hobgoblin."

Spock turns away from the wall. "They do not feel anything at all. Emotions are meant to be controlled so that they do not affect judgment and opposed to what you may think, I do feel--"

"Then show it!" he snarls. "Aren't you the least bit concerned about Jim? Really? He considers you a friend, Spock, and because of that, the first words out of your mouth should be, 'how is he' not 'calm down.'"

"You already have stated that the Captain is not well and therefore, it would be a waste of my time--"

"To show you care. Yeah, I'm sure Jim would be glad to know that," he snarls.

"I understand the appropriate times and places for expression of emotion. While I do not expect you to--"

"Understand? Understand what, Spock? I've only ever seen one emotion out of you and that's anger-- lots and lots of anger. You know what I think? I think you don't even really know what concern or care mean because you don't feel them." Somewhere, he knows these words are unfair. "You use language and you play pretend but the truth is you are just as bad as those robotic assholes that are holding us captive. You--"

Spock is in his face, faster than he can see the movement, before he can back away. Their eyes meet and he sees a well of emotions dwelling in the Vulcan. Before, he knew he was wrong and now, he has evidence of it. Everything is roiling in those eyes, tumbling, twitching, trying boil over and failing. There's no way anyone can deny that Spock feels; McCoy wonders how much of it he meant to direct at Spock and how much he intended for himself.

"I would ask that you do not make any assumptions about my ability to feel or the implications this has for the Captain," Spock says and there is an unparalleled level of sharpness in his tone. His hands clench and unclench at his sides and McCoy hopes they do not end up around his throat. He's seen the damage that Spock can do. However, Spock turns on his heel and glides to the bathroom area instead and McCoy quietly lets out a sigh of relief. The shirt he never put down droops in his hands and he decides to put it back on only to discover his fingers are shaking too badly. Dropping it next to him, he sits by Jim's side and is startled to find the Captain awake.

"S'that a bird?" Jim asks.

"No, it's a shirt," McCoy answers. "How are you feeling?"

"Funny, fuzzy," Jim slurs. McCoy frowns and checks his pulse. Jim's pupils are dilated, his pulse slow. "Sure it's not a bird? It flew then went boom."

He'd almost say that Kirk was on "the good stuff" except there's no way he could be. His next thought is fever but the man's forehead is cool. Instead of considering this a blessing, his mind places this with an every growing list of symptoms. Repressed breathing is similarly categorized and he's wishing more and more for the damn tricorder. Once upon a time, he'd sworn he would not become attached to the machine; now, he's wondering how he's supposed to do anything without it. When dealing with weird technology and even stranger injuries, it is often the only separation between an individual and death.

"Jim, do you remember what happened?" he asks cautiously, trying to figure out the level of Kirk's disorientation.

"The guy with the thing hit me with it and it hurt," Kirk replies unhelpfully. "I feel floaty. Am I floating?"

"Sure, Jim, you're floating," McCoy replies. "What do you mean by 'funny'?"

"Just weird. When'd you get a bird, Bones? Don't want it flying round the ship. It'll crap everywhere."

"Jim, I'll make sure the bird doesn't even come on the ship," McCoy soothes. He's given up on trying to get logical answers from his friend. Jim doesn't appear to be crashing and this Jim, confused, medicated Jim, is better than the Jim he was dealing with before. This Jim he can handle in various ways. He can play the game, talking him through whatever hallucinations he has, agree with nonsensical comments he makes; or he can choose to ground Kirk in reality. He can also go the ignoring, just sit with him and let him blabber on about hamsters taking over the world and sludge monsters in corners.

"You think my dad woulda been proud, Bones?" Kirk asks, suddenly. "Cuz the other Spock said he was in the other universe."

"Of you, Jim? One of the youngest Captains in Starfleet history, received your orders pre-graduation, genius level IQ, I can't see why not. Any dad would be proud."

Kirk tries to sit up and McCoy restrains him. "No, no, I mean of me. Just me."

"Yes, I think he would have been proud of you."

"Even though I'm a real screw up?"

"Even though you are a real screw up."

Jim's silent, his eyes going to half-mast and Spock re-enters their room, pacing immediately over to the wall where the door was. McCoy ignores him but Jim turns towards him. "S'that Spock?"

"Yeah, Spock's here too."

"Thought he was on Vulcan."

"Vulcan blew up, Jim, you were there, remember?"

"Oh… yeah… Guess I forgot. Get my brain mixed up with other Spock's brain sometimes."

"Of course," McCoy replies, because what else to you say to something like that? Jim isn't making a lick of sense and appeasing is easier than arguing. Of course, Jim's mind wanders down to important, uncomfortable topics when he's dwelling in the foggy place of trauma. McCoy tries not to think about what Jim's saying, tries not to over process, because it's a lot easier to provide comfort if he doesn't think about all the psychological ramifications behind the words. This is unprotected Jim he's dealing with and he has to be a friend first, and a doctor later.

Of course, as such, he also considers how Jim may not remember this conversation in a week, but he will. He'll be thinking about Jim's confusion over the memories. He'll think about whether or not it's right to get a bird.

Spock prowls, cat-like, face blanker than the walls surrounding them. Long fingers trail over their prison as though he can detect something McCoy hasn't. There's the slightest twitch of his eyebrows as he reaches the corner near the cot and he pauses, pressing at the seam. Kirk shifts, drawing McCoy's attention, his face suddenly twisting; helpless, McCoy grasps his hand and lets the weakly returned grip attempt to bruise him. Spock pauses his investigation to watch and McCoy imagines that Spock's expression changes ever so slightly.

"Ow," Kirk vocalizes, trying to roll onto his side. "Ow, ow, ow," McCoy forces him to stay on his back, free hand on his shoulder. "Bones?"

"Still with you, Jim," he assures, stomach twisting, lost even with all of his knowledge. "Stuck with you."

Spock takes a knee next to them and helps McCoy hold Jim down. He looks at the damage done by the weapon.

"Spock?" Jim says. "'m sorry."

Spock raises an eyebrow. "Sorry for what, Captain?"

"I shouldn't have done it," Jim tells him, squirming under his hands. "I shouldn't've but it was important and I had to. 'm sorry."

Spock's hand moves from Jim's shoulder to his forehead and McCoy stiffens. For a while, he's believed that someone melded with Jim and he spent time reading up on the concept, what it involves. He doesn't understand everything about it, but he knows enough that Jim's not the ideal candidate for such invasion. No matter how much Jim trusts a person, there's too many levels to him, too much hurt, for him to completely allow such intimate contact. Whoever did it to him before hurt his mind; not badly, not as horribly as McCoy's read about, but enough that McCoy's walked in on him staring vacantly into space, and seen him frowning at familiar faces in confusion, as though they surprise him. Listened to him talk about things that didn't happen and other versions of himself and Spock and even McCoy.

"What are you doing?" he asks, trying not to sound harsh.

"'pologizing," Jim answers him. "Ow, ow, ow…"

Spock knows who he's talking to. "I can do a shallow meld and help him fall into a healing sleep, Doctor. Considering the limitations in our medical care, it is the most logical path."

"Well, I don't agree," he says. Because who knows what even a shallow meld can do to Jim's already flighty brain? "I think we should focus on getting out of here so we can get him proper medical attention."

"As commanding officer, I will have to override you," and Spock closes his eyes.

His hand's still wrapped in Jim's when the meld begins and he feels it, distantly, through the connection with his friend. A sense of peace creeps into his veins, relaxes his rigid posture, his cramping muscles, his worried mind. A voice speaks, too distantly for him to understand, but the words soak up whatever tension still lurks about his body even if he cannot hear them. He's aware of Jim's hand slowly loosening until he holds onto Jim far more than his friend does to him. Then it vanishes and he sits in his prison, confused and disoriented.

"What the—" he begins, shaking his head like a dog. On the pallet, Jim's eyes have closed, highlighting the bruises about them, giving him a sunken, corpse look. But his breathing has steadied, as has his racing heartbeat; his skin seems a bit warmer than McCoy recalls it. Meanwhile, Spock lets his fingers trail down to under Jim's jaw, gaze thoughtful.

"I realize that you do not approve of me," he says, his eyes not leaving Jim's face. "But understand, Doctor, if nothing else I work for the survival of my captain, my ship and Starfleet. Logic dictates that I do what will bring about the best outcome for the _Enterprise_ and part of that involves fealty to my leader. There's a thin line betwixt loyalty and emotions, and," he pauses, "I've found that the theory is sound but in application, separating these two is nearly impossible. Do you understand?"

He opens his mouth and lets his mouth close again.

"And because of this," Spock continues, not saying anything about his silence, "I ask you to set aside your annoyance, merely to get the Captain to safety. Whatever disagreements we have can wait for his betterment, do you not agree?"

What else can he say? "Of course." Because Jim may be the only person he would do anything for anymore. "What do you suggest?"


	3. Chapter 3

Thank you for all of the kind feedback. This is particularly unbeta'd and will probably be somewhat revised (again) in the next few days. But I felt I ought to get it up before I delve back into Sherlock Holmes to finish my Challenge fic. Cheers.

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The two of them stand at the corner of the room, pulling at the edges of the wall with little to no visible results. He wants to give up, stomp his foot, tell Spock he's losing it, but their new found contract binds him to doing whatever might help Jim. And he will be the first to admit, to himself anyway, that sitting on the floor and waiting doesn't do any good. So he digs his nails into the cracks and tugs, hoping for something other than broken nails. Across from him, Spock maneuvers delicately, his hands pulling, prodding, like an artist with clay more than a prisoner doomed.

"Spock," he can't help himself. There has to be a better option. "This isn't working."

Spock doesn't pause in his kneading. "But it is, Doctor. Focus on escape. Your distraction prevents this from happening."

He bites his tongue, seethes and thinks of Jim. Then, taking in a deep breath, he thinks of how he needs to get beyond this wall, how on the other side, somewhere, lies their way back to the _Enterprise_ and the sickbay. And with this thought, come a strange softness about the wall, as though he can burrow his fingers into it. Surprised, he nearly pulls away, but catches himself mid-action; this may be exactly what Spock spoke of, and, if so, then he's successfully achieved something for the first time since this fiasco began.

He scratches, claws and rips, finds strips of the wall slowly dripping backwards so that the stale air from the outside world pours in, real light matching with artificial. Spock, in turn, has widened the hole minutely on his side so soon either of them could fit their head's out of their prison if not their bodies. He doesn't dare pause to contemplate it too thoroughly as the wall sluggishly attempts to go back every time he loses his focus. It creeps about his hands like wet sand, slipping, dripping, splattering; but his force of will overpowers it and, with the only crewmate he really cannot stand, Leonard "Bones" McCoy works to save his best friend and Captain.

"How," he grunts, straining, "are we going to get Jim over and out?"

Spock has the wall curled about his hands like a tailor with cloth. "Once the opening has widened enough, you shall escape and I will pass him to you."

"Will it hold that long?" He gives his hardest tug and the wall groans in protest. "And how did you know to try this?"

Spock continues to spin the material about his arms. "If we open it two meters, the opening should remain large enough for the three of us to successfully escape." He dropped his load onto a solid portion of the barrier before starting to tug again, his side growing into an ever larger snowball of ooze. "And I chose to test a hypothesis about this place."

"Enlighten me," he says, again, wondering if all aliens need to speak half-truths or if it's just Vulcans.

"The creatures of this planet act as a unit, Doctor McCoy, with the ability to create at their disposal. This room, they built of themselves, just as the weapons. Whatever the beings, or I will say being, is, it communicates with the pieces through telepathy. I attempted to use my own abilities on the objects in the bathroom and discovered minimal results. I hypothesized that the proper amount of focus on the weakest part of this reality would force the room to respond and it appears that my theory is, in fact, correct."

"So, my thinking a door should appear will make the door appear," he simplifies.

"A rudimentary understanding but essentially correct," Spock says and he twitches as the words rub at him.

He grunts as the wall fights him. "Then why won't medical supplies appear when I want them?"

"You do not have the ability to make this material obey you, Doctor, as you have little to no telepathic skill. I would also theorize that only the being, or beings, which have created this world can wholly manipulate it while creatures such as ourselves can only interact with already made objects."

As much as it frustrates him, he admits that Spock's theory sounds accurate as he strains to open the hole just another few inches. It's more than large enough for him to fling himself through and he thinks of doing that right now, just shoving his body out into the open so he can get help and come back. But a stronger impulse, the impulse to stay with Jim, prevents him easily and he grapples until all he has to do is hold the wall steady. Spock does not appear even remotely exhausted as he grips his section of the wall; frustrating, he decides, like everything else about the Vulcan. Then he shoves those emotions down.

"Are you prepared, Doctor?" Spock asks and he wants to say 'no, not at all' but nods instead. "Then on my signal."

To his surprise, he knows the sign the moment it happens and dives out onto the uneven ground just as Spock strides towards Jim. He quickly stands, brushing himself off, and prepares to catch the Captain as he's passed through the rapidly shrinking portal. The non-descript landscape, so parallel to destroyed planets and civilizations they've found in the past, makes him nervous. Fidgeting, he's almost unprepared to grab Jim's shoulders as Spock passes him out. Only as he staggers back, does he see the flaw in this plan, the fact that Spock will not fit through now, that his arms are close to getting caught.

"Spock!" he shouts, tripping on a rock and landing hard. Jim falls limply upon him, pinning him down as the wall closes entirely. "Damn it!"

The last thing he wants to do is leave Jim lying on the ground, but he finds himself gently arranging his friend before going back to the wall and trying to pry it apart again. It's not as easy as before, but he's determined and he does as Spock coached him, thinks of it manipulating under his hands, thinks of it as a door to another place. He tears it, coaxes it, tells it, teaches it and suddenly touches another set of hands. The opening returns, showing him Spock's face and he senses and barely sees a look of surprise upon the Vulcan's features. That pleases him enough to keep pawing at it until Spock manages to slip through and land heavily on the ground.

He lets go, gasping, wondering at himself as Spock straightens up next to him.

"Your actions were completely irrational," Spock informs him. "You should have taken the Captain and returned to the shuttle. I would have found another method of escape."

Normally, he'd growl out some snide remark but he finds himself shaking his head. "You're welcome, Spock." And he staggers to Jim who hasn't even flinched this whole time.

They don't pause, even though McCoy desperately wants to make certain Jim didn't take any damage from the fall. There's a moment of silent communication between he and Spock, one traded glance, and Spock has Jim up in his arms again and he's back on his feet. He follows the Vulcan at a swift pace out into the landscape, knowing—how, he's not sure—that Spock recalls the general direction of the shuttle. His head hurts from the sunlight, from dehydration, he bets, maybe even from the strange paralysis caused by the weapon has a hand in it. And there's something else, lingering, leading, directing his feet to follow Spock even when he's not watching the Vulcan.

The y pause so he can catch his breath; he doubles up, unconcerned with appearances or his surroundings as whatever Spock thinks is unimportant and whatever thinks it can get them doesn't know Spock. Strangely, he feels he knows Spock as his mind wanders in haphazard, exhausted circles. Maybe it's guilt from his outburst, but now, when he catches glimpses of the Vulcan, he can see feelings pasted subtly on his features, feel the concern in thick, sticky layers on his skin. He can almost smell it as he tries breathing through his nose to ease his panting, strange, oily and smoggy.

"What the hell?" he mutters, pawing at his face to make it stop.

"Something bothers you?" Spock asks.

He wants to say, yes, in fact, it does but shakes his head as an answer. Kirk distracts him from annoyance with a pale complexion now marred by red shadow over his cheeks. He straightens, shuffles closer to Spock and brushes his fingers against Kirk's forehead. The heat doesn't hearten him and when he looks at the injury, he's shocked.

"Spock, put him down," he commands, trying to rationalize it but finding no explanation.

"Doctor, we must continue. Our captors will have discovered our absence by now," Spock argues.

"Now," he says, fear compounding confusion and while his voice remains steady, his hands do not. Spock blinks at him, then stares, hard, before he obediently arranges Jim on the earth. He rests the Captain's head against his leg, steadying it with his fingers, lips set in a firm line while McCoy pulls the shreds of the shirt away from the injury and ogles.

"It doesn't make sense," he whispers weakly, taking in scabs and yellow-green pigmentation. "How…" Towards the top, the skin around the burn is pink and swollen while the rest has slowly started to scar and heal. He didn't think a healing trance could do so much over such a short period of time but had no other options to blame it on. No, Spock didn't do this, he tries to convince himself.

"Indeed, this is not my doing," Spock agrees aloud and McCoy's heart speeds up. His mind, not slow, but certainly nowhere near Jim or Spock as far as comprehension, tries to piece together a puzzle with only half the facts and then trips as an entirely new mystery appears.

"I didn't say that," he told Spock.

Spock frowns. "I know this."

"Then," how? And what? And who? His stomach rolls with nausea and his head spins a little. Somewhere on the edges of his consciousness, another presence brushes against him, soothing, calm, steady, but not enough to keep him from the roiling that's consuming him. Distraction; he needs distraction desperately, as always, but there's nothing except the mystery that is Jim.

"We cannot linger," Spock warns him. "I thought you knew what had occurred already or I would've explained it to you."

It clicks. "You melded with me," he accuses.

"Yes, through Jim," he answers. "I assure you we will discuss it but they approach. We must go if Jim can be moved."

The shaking travels from his fingers to his elbows then spreads onto his shoulders. It cascades down his chest, touching his heart, his lungs, his kidneys, down to his legs, up to his neck. His teeth clench against clacking, his eyes blink rapidly so that they do not twitch and his ear drums echo as they bounce against the inside of his head. Betrayal combines with fear combines with violation and he can't focus on anything other than that bond which isn't a figment or understanding, but invasion of his personal territory.

"Leonard McCoy," Spock says it awkwardly, "your Captain and friend needs you. Tell me if we can move him."

It snaps him to Jim, to the fever, to the strange wound and bounces him back to the room. His thought process feels mutated, as though it's combined with someone else's. He sees the bed, Jim's doped up face, hears the words of the man-not-a-man and it clicks into place with an almost audible click. With Spock's help, he figures out something that would've taken him far more observation and time and hand-written lists in seconds. His heart speeds up, slows down, twists, and he lurches to his feet, noodle-like and unstable. Just beyond their hiding place approaches a swarm of identical people in identical uniforms, preparing to take them away.

Winding, twisting; his head throbs offbeat from his heart causing a constant, distracting thrum which shoves against the intruder on the edge of his thoughts. He lets it cause that pressure, tries to increase it, and then recalls his promise to set things aside; but then his mind leaps up, demanding to know whether he made that promise on his own accord or because Spock lured him into it. Would he normally be running from alien, infinitely more intelligent captors or would he be waiting patiently for a rescue? What would push him far enough to start a battle that he knew he would not win? Was Jim enough? Was it all a trick?

Spock's beside him, spreading Jim's arm over his shoulders and guiding his hand about Jim's waist. "Take him and head east, Doctor," he says. "I will follow."

And he suddenly has a vision where he's dragging James T. Kirk's half-conscious ass behind a rock while Commander Spock shows off an impressive set of fighting skills. It's circular, he realizes, an unending cycle of irritation, fighting and failure. Like history, like life, like the universe; it's all destined to happen again and again and again. Unless, of course, someone steps forward and changes the game; but, in this situation, changing the game could be devastating; changing the game could mean death.

He catches Spock before he can get out of reach and presses Jim back into his arms. "No, you go. I can't get him there fast enough but I can distract these guys for a while."

"Doctor, you hardly possess the fighting abilities to contain—"

"I don't need to contain them or stop them or whatever," he snaps, furiously, his stomach rolling with uncertainty and fear. "Just go."

"Doctor—"

"Go!"

Instead of a phaser, a rock sits in his shaking hands like ancient man facing the wolf. He has no fire, no spear, but he has something else. There's a thin line in him between emotions and the defense mechanisms he's built to survive and he's standing on the edge of oblivion, about to fall one way or another; defend his friend or run for his life. Ten yards away, the jaws of the beast await to close around him, to end him, and he cannot come up with a reason for why he's doing this.

So, he raises his hand and throws the rock. There's plenty more at his disposal.


	4. Chapter 4

Erm, well, I do feel a bit sheepish. I rather forgot that I had not posted this new bit here. But, now I've remembered, and here it is. Thank you so much for the support and please enjoy the continuation.

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They crash over him like waves, completely unhindered by his rocks, by his shouts, by his fear, by his anger; but he understands them better now, his mind still minutely connected to Spock's mind, his senses heightened so he can see them not as a group but as a unit of a thing. And this thing, he realizes, as it presses around him and steals his air, his senses and his life, does not mean any of this in maliciousness. It does not feel such things, does not act out of such intent, merely reacts to its surroundings in a manner that best suits the survival of the whole. He has not angered it, he has not hurt it, he has not even really registered to it beyond his usage as a bargaining chip, and so, it runs him over in an attempt to catch Spock and Kirk.

And then, he stops thinking and realizes he's died. It disconcerts him more than he ever expected it to as he views his surroundings. He stopped believing a long time ago, figured that the lights probably just went out in the end, and that was it. Whatever God he had been raised to faithfully follow failed him, and he secretly thought he had failed that God just as much. Consequentially, he didn't see a place for himself in Heaven or the mysterious suffering of Hell. The end was the end and that was all. So, opening his eyes and seeing his grandfather's farm on a hot summer's day with a cool glass of iced tea in his hand and a tree for shade surprises him far more than nothing or even little men in red with horns.

He holds the glass to his lips, feels the tender caress of cool glass and tastes the mildness of lemon. The sweat of condensation drips over his fingers and the ice cubes clink gently against the sides of the cup. The grass underneath him smells of fresh rain and rich soil and crinkles when he closes his free fingers upon it. His back rubs against rough bark, his shirt—not a Starfleet uniform but flannel with a dirty old undershirt—catching on it, no doubt snagging. This is a perfect day, he decides, tentatively sighing to see if he still breathes and finding that air passes over his lips. How strange that death imitates life; maybe it is, as his mother always said, the start of his next big adventure.

Or maybe it's just a continuation of the first. In front of him, there out of nothing, is the main man, the leader with the blank eyes and the dull expression. He wears jeans and flannel and he, too, has an iced tea; except it all looks wrong on him from his long cut hair to his dirt encrusted nails. It reminds him of movies he'd watched, where the research of the subject had been done, but the execution felt forced; every old medical television show crosses his mind as he sees the green stains on the blue material of the pants and the day old stubble on the face.

"Is this not correct attire?" the man asks, catching his stare.

"You're right," he shrugs and drinks the tea. The man follows suit but does not look satisfied as McCoy feels.

"What is the purpose of this?" The man motions to the cup.

"Pleasure," McCoy answers, setting the glass aside and stretching his arms above his head. "What the hell are you doing in my afterlife?"

The man tilts his head. "Afterlife? Does this not require cessation of bodily function?"

"Uh, yeah, it does," he says. "Last time I checked, you and your fellow sociopaths were crushing the life out of me and your home didn't look like Grandad's farm. Pretty safe assumption that you accomplished your task."

"You are incorrect," the man informs him. He sips the tea mechanically. "You still live. We merely seek a better form of communication with you."

"So you transported me to Georgia?" McCoy feels his brows travel half-way up his forehead.

"No, we have entered your body and your mind," it answers and chills trickle down his spine. The grass feels less soft. "Please do not fight us."

Twice in one day; he has been violated twice, once by a man he trusted, and once by the enemy. If the surroundings had not lolled him into complacency already, he would scream. Instead, he slaps the tea aside and stands up. The man follows his actions with no more interest than Spock in a remedial math class. He tosses his own cup to the side and it vanishes instead of spilling its contents like his has. He watches as it simply winks out of existence and around him, the illusion wobbles.

"What do you want?" he asks, praying that Jim isn't stuck in a place like this. With a tentative mental hand, he reaches out towards Spock but feels nothing at all. His mind, once again, appears empty of anyone but himself. He wishes it was true.

"Understanding," the man responds. "We are confused by the actions committed by yourself and Commander Spock."

"You don't understand why we wanted to escape imprisonment and get our sick friend to a place where he could be helped?" McCoy wonders if they understand his incredulous tone or are merely noting it for stress patterns. His breathing has sped up and he can feel the pounding of his heart.

"We provided him with comfort," the man says, as though it is that simple. "We had no intention of allowing him to perish nor did we wish to harm you. You would've been well-cared for. The logical action would require you staying in the room and monitoring your friend's condition instead of attempting escape."

"I've never claimed to be logical," he snaps, fidgeting. Around him, the world warps slightly at the edges and the heat feels more oppressive.

The man looks so lifeless, so fake, against what he considers to be pure life. "Doing what will ensure the survival of the greatest number of lives is not what you attempt to do?"

Generally, he would say yes to this, but in this instance, he just shakes his head at the man. There's a gap in communication, a lack of knowledge which he doubts he will get across. It's like talking to Spock, except worse because Spock at least sees his perspective even if he does not agree. This creature before him does not even have that; they only share the data, none of the interpretation. And he does not have a hope of explaining anything to it. The bile rises in his throat, tasting of stomach acid and tea, and he chokes a little bit."

"I do what's best for my friends," he whispers. "What's best for my captain and what will save his life."

"There are other captains," the man says, almost perplexed, if he were not so monotone. "The sacrifice of the one in order for the creation of bonds which will help the lives of millions seems a minor concession."

He thinks he may be panicking, that he may be shutting down, that he may be coming back. Whatever he may be doing, it hurts his chest, hurts his head, hurts deep in his gut; but also, it's reviving that tickle somewhere in the back of his consciousness. It encourages him to say, "But there's only one Jim Kirk. And his life is worth more to me."

"This statement is incorrect," the man wavers in his appearance, against the undulations of the scenery. "There are many Jim Kirks, many captains, many people with the same build, same face, same eyes. Jim Kirk is not irreplaceable."

"No, you're wrong," he surprises himself at the vehemence. "There's only one Jim Kirk who would give up everything for his crew. There's only one Jim Kirk who would chance his own life to save others from pain. There is only one Jim Kirk who could pull crazy stunts and still save the day. And there is only one Jim Kirk who could possibly be friends with a man like me." His floor's falling out from under him as those words leave his lips.

The man's fingers meld together and trip towards the grass. It crunches. "We do not understand."

"What is there not to understand, man?" he demands. "I would give up my life to save his because he's a better person than I am."

"Leaders are many and varied, arguably better than this particular one," the man says. His face warps. "Your skills in bodily repair make you very valuable in your own right though many exceed your talent and abilities. In comparison to the captain, you're both able at your positions but both replaceable."

He thinks he will scream but what exits his lips is a scoff followed by a derisive laugh. "And I thought Spock was inhuman. You just don't get it, do you?"

"We do not comprehend the contradictory behavior of your kind," the man—no, it's a creature, not a man—agrees. "You sacrifice for one, for all, for all reasons, for none. You do not always consider what is best for the whole but care more for singular beings and insist on individuality."

"Because individuality makes us what we are," he stresses. "It makes us special."

"Individuality causes eradication and dissention," the man corrects. "Individuality neither allows for growth nor stable future."

The thing in the back of his mind twists and pulls at him. He ignores it in the heat of battle. "But it causes love, beauty and joy as well! It's why I wanted to be a doctor and not a captain. It's why Jim saved the world. It's why Spock chose to stay with the Enterprise instead of going off to New Vulcan. It's why we agreed to start friggin' negotiations with you people."

"It weakens you," the man says simply.

And he feels confident when he states the following, "No, it makes us strong."

And Georgia pulls away from his skin, out of his esophagus, away from his ears and his nose. It jerks out of his eyes and out from under the beds of his nails until he can see the true world again, dirty, dusty and dead. The fluid substance still is unraveling from around him and once again, the thing at the back of his mind thrums through him with a tinge of confusion. About him, everything trembles and warps as the fluid shapes into the men, with the man at the front. They all stand identically, hands at their sides, staring straight ahead. Spock's words linger in his mind, how emotions don't help with them because they don't feel. The thin line of loyalty and love doesn't exist for them and they would easily throw themselves into the wind, throw each other into the wind, if it meant gaining an inch of advancement for the whole.

"Doctor," the man addresses him the same as he always has. "We will be taking you back to the room so we may continue our talks with Starfleet."

He tries to speak but gags on something in his throat. It comes out as a garbled groan as the fluid emerges from behind his teeth and drips onto the floor. "They… w'n't… listen…"

"If your people are so fixated upon each individual's unique and special existence, surely they will happily trade for you," the man reasons as two of the lackeys behind him approach McCoy.

The chuckle escapes him again. "Not all humans are noble. We don't all sacrifice everything for the good of one."

"Explain," the man commands as they drag McCoy to his feet and he wobbles about.

"I'm not special enough to Starfleet for you to get your negotiations anymore. With Spock and Jim and I, you may have stood a chance but with them free, you, my friends, have lost the golden eggs."

The man tilts his head and every single one of the others follow suit. "Then we will accomplish our goals through means of threat and dominance. Much of your world is built upon the fear of consequence. We will insist on relations lest we cause great harm upon your kind with the knowledge we will glean from your mind."

"And you'll lose like every other tyrant who's ever lived," he spits it out, anger rushing through him, back out the thing in his mind which returns with a silent question. "You won't get what you want through threats or hostages."

"Clarify."

He refuses to speak, even when they pull him very close to the leader so their eyes meet and he peers into the empty globes. All he sees lingering there is a shell, controlled by a singular consciousness that seeks only the preservation and survival of a mass race. It frightens him to his core but also awes him. The perfect machine lingers behind those globes; it never wavers to do what will best help the whole, never bows to love, to hate, to anything; it contradicts his self-absorption, his narcissism and exudes pure selflessness. Not the kind he believes in which derives from love of another, but the kind that comes from mindless, unquestioning devotion.

"Your denial will not prevent our actions, merely our means of achieving them," the man informs him. "You will be returned to your room to await our decisions."

One of them comes up behind him and presses the glowing rod into his spine. This time, all of his senses fade away so that he is completely unaware of anything from the passing of time to the movements of his body. All he has left is that thing in his head which keeps plying him for answers that he doesn't have because he doesn't understand the questions. Emotionally, he's drained to the point where he cannot care about where he is, where he is going, what these creatures—or creature—have in mind. He's openly admitted things to it that he hasn't ever admitted to anyone and, now, he's terrified that the words will travel across the air to everyone he knows.

'We will rescue you,' says the thing in the back of his mind. 'Do not give in to their demands.'

His eyes open in that same room, with that same button, with nothing but the cot and the floors and the walls. "What demands?" he asks the air.

He receives no answer.


End file.
